


if i don't go to hell when i die, i might go to heaven

by anatomied



Series: send our love to its reward down in hell [8]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 13:42:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9823106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anatomied/pseuds/anatomied
Summary: Ryan comes back from a "business trip", so to speak, and Ray's got insomnia.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This took longer than I would've liked thanks to college - but it's finally here! More Ray PoV, but post-the previous fics.

One in the morning, and Ray can’t sleep. This isn’t uncommon. They’re in the middle of what could generously be called a slow period for the crew, in between two heists and picking up on smaller crimes and contracts. Which means Ray’s bored. And on edge. He’s spent most of his time playing video games and waiting for something to happen, anything to happen. And he’s been.

Well. Uh.

Missing Ryan, just a little bit. Sure, they’ve been calling and shit, but Ryan’s been busy up in northern California, because Ryan’s the most charming person out of all of them and Geoff needed someone who could convince _and_ murder equally well. Geoff even apologized to Ray about it as if Ray was going throw a tantrum - _sorry but we’ve got to send your boyfriend up north for a little bit, shit has to get done, and you definitely can’t be there with him for it_.

Everyone else seems to be more comfortable with Ryan being Ray’s boyfriend than even Ray is. Whatever. They all seemed to know it was coming, acting all psychic and _I told you so_.

Ryan’s back in town as of noon today - or yesterday.

Ray flops over on his back and slaps his hand around on the bedside table until his hand wraps around his phone. He squints down at the screen until his eyes focus a little. He’s still in his clothes from today - jeans and a t-shirt.

            **ray** : you awake? also this is not a booty call

After a moment he rummages around and picks up his glasses too, shoving them onto his nose just in time for his phone to gently ping in his left hand.

            **ry bread** : Yeah, what’s up? Sort of disappointed about that second half, but okay

            **ray** : idk. cant sleep

            **ry bread** : Want me to come over?

            **ray** : sure if you feel like it. i know flights kick the shit out of me but if youre good

            **ry bread** : Be over in fifteen

            **ry bread** : Should I bring anything

            **ray** : uh??? yourself i guess and maybe some guns. we can go commit some crime if you feel like it

            **ry bread** : I got a nice revolver in San Francisco :) I’ll bring that even if I don't get to use it

            **ray** : dude san francisco is like… the most anti-gun place ever how the fuck

            **ry bread** : I know the right people

            **ray** : ok just get your creepy ass over here

Ray pauses a little, sitting up on the edge of the bed. He’s been trying his best to be a little more obvious about positive regard for Ryan and whatever the fuck. So after a minute he taps out a final text, squeezing his eyes shut before hitting send, just so he doesn’t have to embarrass himself like this visually. Hopefully Ryan just takes it all with a grain of salt and doesn’t start asking questions and whatever.

            **ray** : missed you, btw

Yeah. Okay. Time to put the phone down, dumbass.

He sets the case for his glasses back into the drawer of his nightstand. At the bottom of the drawer, the face of Renshaw’s watch glitters up at him, a kind of dark promise.

\---

Thankfully Ryan doesn’t mention the final text.

He comes in grinning, no paint or mask tonight - at least not with him at that moment. The mask is probably in his car. Ray gives him a lazy wave from the couch. The evening news is playing, and Ray’s not really paying attention to the television. He’s tapping away at Hearthstone on his phone.

“Seriously?” Ryan leans against the back of the couch, peering down at the screen. “My first day back from a long shitty trip, and you decide to play Hearthstone to fucking greet me?”

“Aw,” Ray coos, “you poor _baby_ , what did you want? Candlelight dinner?”

“I mean. I don’t trust you making dinner. Do you even know how to cook?”

“Ancient art of the microwave, yeah.”

Ryan’s laugh rumbles in his chest. It’s nice to hear on the phone. It’s even nicer to hear in person. “Oh, definitely. Our ancient forefathers used _the microwave_ to cook all of their meals, from morning ‘til night -”

Ray smirks up at him. “See. There you go.”

“Fuck you,” Ryan laughs again, and really, they’re both laughing so much, what the fuck is going on. It’s all gross and romantic and shit. Probably illegal in most states. But Ryan circles around the couch easily. His usual heist jacket is gone and replaced by - another black jacket, to be honest, because he’s uncompromisingly edgy, but one a little less worn out. He settles on the couch next to Ray, the thing creaking a little under their combined weight. He really should buy a new couch, but Ray has a personal tendency to not buy anything new until the old one breaks.

They sit there in silence. Ryan’s watching the TV, which he always does whenever it happens to be on the news. Kind of weird, though, the way he does it. Ray would almost say it borders on a fixation, as if he’s searching out their images or names in the headlines every single time. But Ray doesn’t ask too many questions about it. It’s just one of those little Ryan things that Ray lets slide, like the ability to torture guys and the weird facts he knows. Watching TV is the least of all of those things.

Ryan’s hand creeps over to his knee after a minute. There’s still something awkward about it at this second - as if they’ve forgotten what each person here is like. After a minute, though, the feeling adjusts and Ray leans up against Ryan, their shoulders and sides pressing together. Ryan hums a little to himself.

Finally, a few minutes later, he glances over at Ray. “So, you mentioned crime.”

“So I did,” Ray says, closing Hearthstone seconds after he loses the match. “Any preferences?”

Ryan hums. “I’ve been doing a lot of targeted murders over the past week. Let’s do something big and general.”

“Blow something up?”

“Mm. I didn’t bring explosives.” Ryan clicks his tongue, a little annoyed at himself. “If you’ve still got some grenades or sticky bombs, we could sabotage some convenience stores, though.”

Ray pauses to think. “I think I’ve still got a few grenades.”

\---

The final grenade count turns out to be exactly two after Ray digs around and finds one more stashed underneath his sink, just in case.

They pick two convenience stores on each side of Los Santos, just to give plenty of time for the police chase in between. Ryan pulls down the mask in the car, and Ray checks his pistol one last time, safety off, ready at a moment’s notice. Yeah. They’re good. Ryan glances over at him, face obscured by the familiar contours of the mask, and even though he can’t see his face, Ray knows he’s smiling. “Stop giving me a look like that, asshole.” He’s grinning to himself the whole time though. “Okay. Let’s go be dashing, terrifying, murderous criminals.”

The first convenience store is easy. They sweep in, Ray shoots out one camera, Ryan sends the other one up in a shower of sparks, and the cashier yelps and crouches down behind the counter. Ryan wastes no time in circling around the counter and hauling the cashier out by the back of his shirt, nearly throwing him into a gum display. Ray’s leaning up against the front of the counter idly. Ryan frisks the cashier, takes his cell phone, and then pretty much throws him towards the front door.

The kid scrambles away, breath huffing out frantically from his throat.

Ryan circles around and smacks the cash register with the grip of his gun until it pops open with a mangled clank.

“Excuse me,” Ray snaps, Ryan’s eyes automatically moving to him, “are you just going to ignore a fucking _upstanding_ customer, like I definitely am?”

“Oh, sir,” Ryan says, and he’s got that voice on again, the _talking to Mark Renshaw_ voice with a little less pompousness and a little more good humor. “I’m so sorry. Please, feel free to take whatever you want from this entire convenience store as a way for me to pay you back. For wasting a second of your precious time.”

Ray rolls his eyes as dramatically as possible. “Fucking amateurs,” he drawls out, starting to move towards the drinks in the back. He’ll get a water before they head out. A well-aimed package of Tic-Tacs hurtles past his head and knocks a few bags of chips off of the shelf. He laughs a little to himself and takes a bottle of water out of the fridge.

Sirens grow louder and louder.

“Hey,” Ryan says. He’s got the mask tilted up so he can take a drink from a bottle of diet Coke. He’s already taken a box of peppermint gum and something else by this point. “Time to go.”

Ray nods and tosses the bottle of water into the trash. There’s only a little left at the bottom anyway, and it’s not like he’s going to be drinking a lot of water while shooting.

Once they’re outside, Ryan wastes no time in leaving the doors wide open, pulling the pins on two grenades with his thumbs, and rolling them both into the store like you would roll a ball to a dog. Ray rolls his eyes. It’s so needlessly overdramatic, to be honest. They back up a little more. There’s a puff of smoke and a bang. The windows crack. Shelves collapse. A fire alarm starts blaring inside, smoke drifting out of the doorway towards the parking lot.

Ray shakes his head. “That’s still the most disappointing shit in the world. Michael Bay’s spent his whole career being a lying hack fraud.”

Ryan laughs. Ray still wants to have that sound be his fault for the rest of their lives.

They hop into Ryan’s car right when the police arrive. Ryan wastes no time in hitting the accelerator as Ray rolls down the window and starts shooting. Ryan even brought an SMG, so bullet casings are flying everywhere, the gun jerking back against Ray’s shoulder with every second he keeps the trigger pulled.

“Shit,” Ryan says, his voice quiet underneath the shouts and the scream of tortured rubber on asphalt, “I missed this.”

“Fuck missing this,” Ray snaps over his shoulder, tossing the SMG off to the side when it runs out of rounds and yanking out his pistol. A police car spins out into a light pole behind them and the whole thing crashes down on the car’s roof. Ryan spins the wheel, the palm of his left hand stopping it as he spins it back around to keep them on course. “I missed _you_ ,” Ray tells him.

Their lives are just a romantic comedy according to Ray’s adrenaline-fueled mouth, and he’s got to make all the statements that Ryan will make fun of years from now.

The police tail them all the way to the second convenience store. It’s almost impressive, like they’ve been building up their energy reserves over the time Ryan’s been away. They even get a few very brave guys on motorcycles darting in and out of traffic on the highway to keep up with them.

“Wow,” Ryan comments as one of the cops slips right in between two SUVs. “That guy’s good.”

“Too good,” Ray agrees. “We have to kill him. If we leave him alone, Ryan, he’ll get too powerful, and then we’ll never be able to get rid of him.”

“We’re getting close to the kind of world where Robocop exists,” Ryan muses vaguely at the windshield. Fucking nerd. “And if that guy lives, he’ll be the first one of that type.”

“Shit,” Ray says, leaning out the window. “You put it like that and it means we’ve really got to kill him. We have to save the future, Ry.”

He glances back in time to see the smirk crawling across Ryan’s face. “Hey, that’s your job. I’m just driving.”

“You’re part of this too, asshole.”

“I’m really not. All I did was put forth an idea.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” Ray manages to put a few bullets in the front tire of future Robocop’s bike. The bike does this magnificent fucking flip over and careens into the median. Even though he can’t hear it, Ray’s pretty sure there was a magnificent crunch. He leans back into the car to load another clip, his hands sure. “Took care of the future menace, by the way. Skull met median.”

“What,” Ryan scoffs, “you expecting a reward or something?”

“I mean, with the kind of effort I put into that, a blowjob would be nice.” Ray doesn’t mean it. Well, he kind of means it.

Ryan rolls his eyes, good-natured as ever. “Maybe. We’ll see. You have to actually impress me for that kind of shit.”

Disgruntled, Ray clocks him hard in the shoulder.

They careen off the highway down towards the second convenience store, mere feet away from accidentally jumping the concrete barrier. Ryan keeps that fine control of the car, though, and they zip through an intersection and down a few more blocks. The familiar lights of a gas station grow larger and larger. Ray leans forward and slips the gun back into the holster along his back, safety on. No need to get stupid about this.

The second robbery is faster. Ray gets out of the car. Ryan tugs the RPG out of his car and keeps it strapped onto his back. It looks both dumb and intimidating, which seems to be the main reason Ryan does just about fucking anything.

There’s not as much time to fuck around as there was before. Ray just swings in, shoots the clerk as they make their way inside, and takes care of gathering up the cash while Ryan hums to himself - probably some showtunes, if Ray’s learned anything from the CDs Ryan likes to keep in his car - and kicks open the back door.

The alarm goes off immediately, leaking audible panic into the streets around them.

Ray jogs to catch up with Ryan’s stupidly long stride as they hit the back parking lot. They don’t even have to talk. What they do here has been well-practiced. They take a quick pace until they’re a block over, waiting at the mouth of the alley, and see blue and red lights screaming down the road towards them.

Ryan tugs the RPG out. He rests it on his shoulder like it doesn’t weigh anything.

“Hey,” Ray says, “don’t fuck this shot up, or else no blowjobs are happening for anyone tonight.”

“I thought you were talking about receiving. What with killing Robocop back there.” Ryan loads the RPG as he talks, calm as anything.

Ray shrugs. “We can do both. Little bit of column A, little bit of column B. Don’t be so picky, Jesus Christ.”

The car moves closer. It cuts across two lanes of traffic to speed towards the convenience store..

Ray hears Ryan’s soft inhale right before he fires. The rocket spirals forward, It collides with the side of the cop car and immediately goes up in flames. The cruiser skids and spirals out to stop in the middle of the road, other cars swerving frantically around it. There’s not much traffic out here tonight, though, which soon leaves the car a burning wreck.

They head on over across the road. Ryan’s humming again, a different song this time, as he stands a safe distance back from the flames. There’s an officer who must’ve been tossed out of his window or something, seatbelt useless against that kind of impact, his hand reaching down to touch the sidewalk.

Ryan catches Ray’s hand in his. The motion tugs the two of them closer together, nearly pressed up against each other. Ryan’s hand slips around Ray’s back, and for about two seconds Ray’s absolutely convinced they’re going to make out next to this burnt-out cop car with a corpse slumped out of it onto the sidewalk. It doesn’t happen that way, though. Ryan lets go with his hand and brushes some dirt or soot off of Ray’s cheek carefully, collecting a dark smudge on his thumb.

“Ray.” Oh. It’s the earnest version of Ryan again, the most dangerous version, hands down. “You get what happened up in San Francisco, right? And why?”

“Of course, dude.” Not making out, then. Doing the talking thing, which Ray’s even worse at by far.

Ryan’s searching for something in Ray’s eyes. A few moments pass, the fire crackling nearby in the police car’s engine block. Ryan says nothing.

Eventually whatever he sees seems to satisfy him. He lets Ray go, his fingers trailing a soft path along Ray’s shoulder and side anyway as if he isn’t quite sure he wants to move away.

“Let’s go,” Ryan finally says. He’s not quite holding onto Ray, but the hand is still there. “We can get takeout on the way home.”

Ray considers for a moment. “Thai?”

“Sure. Whatever you want.”

It’s as if Ryan’s worried that if he does lose contact, Ray might just disappear.

\---

They get takeout after stealing a new car. They go home.

Home being Ray’s apartment, where Ryan fits in as easily now as any piece of furniture. And despite all the talk, no blowjobs happen. Exhaustion suddenly fits onto Ryan as if it was there the whole time, lurking behind the bravado and the huge fucking rocket propelled grenade launcher. When they get home, they just eat. They start some series on Netflix - the new one, with Drew Barrymore and the guy from _Justified_ as a suburban couple. And zombies, too, because that’s the way pop culture works.

It’s funny enough. It fills the space.

They don’t talk a lot either. There’s that weird concept of just _enjoying each other’s presence_ or whatever.

Ray didn’t really get that kind of thing when people talked about relationships, or about finding someone you could easily just exist with. Normally his mouth likes to do the talking for him and fill up too much empty space with a snide comment. But it’s easy with Ryan. It always is.

Eventually, Ryan announces he’s going to take a shower. Ray doesn’t blame him. It’s one of those post-crime things Ryan always does - packing up all of his equipment, eating some kind of food with an ice cold diet Coke, and then a shower. Rituals and shit.

Ray waits until the shower starts up, audible through the walls.

Then he slips back into the bedroom and digs Renshaw’s watch up again. He’s been trying to tell himself to sell it. It’s evidence laying around, and it’s expensive, and however Ryan killed Renshaw, it involved some kind of conflict that led to a thin crack down the glass. So it’s not even any good as a watch - not that Ray would wear this kind of thing.

He slips it on his wrist anyway, just to feel the weight. It kind of fucks with him, how much he doesn’t want to get rid of it. Ray is used to immediately exorcising anything with sentimental value. Just get that shit out immediately.

But getting rid of this, to be heavy-handed about it, would be like suddenly dumping Ryan. Unthinkable. And even that’s not the right metaphor.

Times like this, Ray wishes he was in contact with his mother. Really in contact, he means. _Hey, mom, what does it mean when my boyfriend - now, don’t freak out, okay - gave me a really expensive watch off of a guy I wanted dead anyway and that shit really matters to me? Like, what the fuck does that mean?_

It keeps pulling at him. He doesn’t like it.

Maybe he just remembered because of - well, _Ryan_ , and that look, and that tone. _You know why get what happened up in San Francisco. You know_. Phrasing it like a question was polite. It was a statement of fact. Ryan knows Ray gets it. Because Ray gets Ryan, through and through, since day one all the way to day whatever the fuck. From the robbery to the murder to the spectacle, he gets it.

Ray tosses the watch back into the drawer. It lands with a heavy thunk.

Through the wall he hears Drew Barrymore, faint and tinny on the television screen, say _some people use murder to cope_.

Yeah, okay. No shit.

He goes to turn off the TV before anything else eerily fitting starts happening.

\---

Ray knows exactly why Ryan went up to San Francisco.

Because it was about Ray. More accurately, it was about the two guys who showed up two weeks ago to try and kill Ray in his apartment, because obviously the sniper would be the weak link, no hand-to-hand combat ability to speak of. They didn’t know he had been practicing with the Vagabond, of all people. So these two guys broke in and were lying in wait, hiding out in his bedroom as he came in.

They were trying to knock him out, which meant interrogation or ransom or getting the details about the crew torn out from him.

It didn’t go well for them.

So then Ray had two dead bodies and a hell of a problem on his hands. The problem was eventually traced up to San Francisco, some gang there trying to expand into Los Santos and get Fake AH out of the way, and Ryan was sent up north.

Geoff said it was because Ryan had the right talent pool.

Ray’s pretty sure that was a lie. Ray’s pretty sure it was because Ryan insisted.

The look on his face when Ray had video called him, actually a little scared of something that wasn’t his own emotions and shit, blood leaking out onto the carpet of his apartment, had been more than a little terrifying. Ryan looked ready to bring down God’s wrath, Biblical kind of shit. And he remembered - and still remembers - that one time after a recent heist, Ray shot in the shoulder and cursing about it, Ryan had grabbed the shoulder without the bullet and told him _anyone hurts you, I kill them, okay_.

_Okay, dude_ , Ray said, laughing a little with the pain of it all, _calm the fuck down, I’m not dead or anything._

Maybe that had been a bad response, considering the honest to God attempt on his life a few weeks later.

Ray is certain that if the guys who had put the hit on him were all the way in Antarctica, Ryan would’ve gotten a fucking flight somehow and headed out there to kill every single last one of them with his bare hands.

As it was, some of the calls Ray got in San Francisco were nice hotel room calls, Ryan talking soft and sleepy into the phone. The other fifty percent were _hi, babe, I’m torturing one of the guys who confirmed the hit on you, and you’re on speaker so sorry if this is a little loud -_ . Insert pained screaming here. And Ryan not being very sorry at all afterwards. One time, Ray got the second kind of call while sitting in a _diner_ , for God’s sake, and sat there trying to innocently eat a cheap omelette and hash browns while four hundred miles away, Ryan made a guy swallow a razor blade.

Ryan thinks Ray’s got a not so secret self-righteous streak. Ray thinks Ryan’s got a blaringly obvious sirens-going-off sadistic streak, one that delights in making sure Ray’s involved and present. It’s like when a cat brings home bugs to its owner, but it’s a thirty-something year old bringing back bodies that the police can prosecute both of them for.

How fucking sweet of him.

Despite the fact they’re a real thing, Ray’s still not sure how to feel about that. Ryan’s never something he’ll be able to take home to his mom - _hi, mom, this is my boyfriend, a scary murderer who likes watching me kill people too!_ \- but it’s not as if he wanted that to begin with. He’s sure about that. But at the same time, he’s pretty sure knowing Ryan is making him into a worse person, as much as worse applies to criminals. A civilian was shot on their last heist, an unfortunate matter of timing where this teenager happened to glide on a skateboard right where Ray was trying to shoot the target.

Even Michael winced. _Fuck,_ he said into his microphone. Geoff, Jack, and Gavin seemed at least remorseful.

Ryan didn’t comment, not at first. Ray checked that his rifle had enough rounds. _Shit happens_ , he said evenly. _That’s why you fucking buy life insurance_. On the street, Ryan was for once without his mask to fit in, and the smile that appeared on his lips was wide and nearly stupid, gleeful, even.

Ray enjoys being that worse person. He enjoys being that worse person that makes Ryan laugh.

A very small and very soft part of him will even admit, on the really good days, that worse person is just exactly who Ray is, stripped down to his core.

\---

Ray listens to the sound of the shower running for a few moments before making a dumb decision. He grins to himself and reaches over to snatch up Ryan’s phone. There’s still a stain on the corner from where Ryan’s bloody thumbs must’ve tapped some text out. Either way, Ray unlocks Ryan’s phone - and he hasn’t told him he knows the passcode, but whatever - and opens Skype.

He frowns down at Ryan’s Skype name. God, it’s still the whole Vagabond thing. What a stupid fucking edgelord.

Ray takes a minute to fix that problem.

_Are you sure you want to change “Vagabond” to “HaywoodYouBlowMe”?_

“Hell yeah,” Ray mutters to himself. No regrets, totally, until Ryan guts him like a fish. He hits _confirm_. Then he sets Ryan’s phone to do not disturb and turns it over on the nightstand. Ryan probably won’t even notice, because as observant as he is, he tends not to pay attention to things like _was my phone face up or face down before I left_.

Also, he trusts Ray.

Big mistake, buddy.

Ray tugs off his glasses and leans over to set them back into their case. His own phone lights up. New notification from Skype, so he leans closer to make out the details of the text. It’s from the Fake AH group chat, currently called _420 pave it_ in homage to all the construction making getting to the penthouse a pain in the ass. That’s part of why the heists have been on hold. They’re just lazy, when it comes down to it, and don’t want to fight through closed lanes and a fuckton of traffic. The name itself was Michael’s idea, and of course Ray-approved.

**dumbnose mcshithead** : RYAN?? WHAT THE HELL??

Oh, yeah. Tomorrow morning’s going to be awesome.

He turns his phone and rolls over onto his side, tugging off his glasses so he doesn’t accidentally snap them in half in his sleep or something.

Ryan comes out of the shower a bit later. They don’t even say anything to each other. Ryan just climbs into bed and throws an arm over Ray easily, the two of them pressed up against each other. Ray sighs a little into his pillow and some mysterious tension leaks out of his shoulders and spine.

Sleep comes very easily where it didn’t before.

\---

“Ray,” Ryan says, dangerously flat.

Ray mumbles something, taking another pillow with him as he rolls towards the edge of the bed that the voice isn’t coming from. He keeps it over his face as he moves. Yes. There’s absolutely no need to get up. He’s warm and comfortable here, even if the sun is starting to creep in at the corners of the pillow.

“Ray,” Ryan repeats again, louder this time.

He sounds actually kind of upset about something.

Ray moves the pillow off of his face and squints over in Ryan’s general direction. Ryan is very delicately holding his phone as if it’s diseased, a look somewhere between confusion and annoyance locked into place. Which probably means this is something Ray should pay attention to.

“Wha,” Ray mutters, collapsing flat on his back.

Deliberate Ryan is not a happy Ryan. He takes a seat on the bed only to keep scrolling along something on his phone. “Did you change my Skype name last night?”

Oh, shit.

“No,” Ray lies. It’s too late to lie very convincingly.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Also completely fair.”

“Y’know,” Ryan continues calmly, “the second you leave the room for anything, you’re fucked.”

Ray rolls over again just to shove his entire face into the pillow. What the fuck was he thinking last night. “I assume,” he says directly into the fabric, “that’s not in a fun sex way.”

“No.” The comment almost makes Ryan’s laugh bubble up to the service. Ray will take that as a small and petty but personal victory. “Not at all.”

“We should renegotiate this whole deal.”

“Go back in time and tell past you to not change my Skype name first.”

“How about something that doesn’t require me to go get a DeLorean, dude?”

Ryan sighs, deep and sorrowful. “I guess nothing will repair this schism in our relationship.”

“ _Schism_ ,” Ray repeats. He squints over at his alarm clock until he can make out the red numbers. “It’s eight in the morning. You can’t be using _schism_ as a real word before noon. That’s a new rule I’m creating. Right here, right now. You owe me five whole dollars for breaking it.”

“No partial dollars?”

“Nope. Cold complete American cash, buddy. Legally or illegally gained, though, doesn’t matter.”

Ryan sighs again. “I guess I’ll have to pay you back with some of that very illegal cash we got last night. After you make breakfast.”

That makes Ray sit up in as close as he gets to a panic at eight in the morning. “I don’t ever make God damn breakfast.”

Ryan stares down at his phone. “Well, you fucking do now.”

“You can’t be this mad about the Skype thing.”

Ryan winks. Ray recognizes when he’s losing an argument.

Ray groans and swings his legs out of bed slowly, making sure to take as much time as possible. He grumbles and complains as much as possible even while pulling a pair of pants on and shuffling towards the kitchen as slowly as humanly possible.

“Pick up the damn pace,” Ryan drawls from the bed. “What the hell else am I paying you five dollars for, honestly.”

“Fuck you,” Ray snaps, flipping him off. Ryan’s laughter follows him all the way to the kitchen, one of those full ones that makes a smile twitch at Ray’s lips.

Sure, as he knows, they’re bad, bad people who do terrible things.

And that’s why they’re allowed to get away with good things like this.  


**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Bad Bad Things" by AJJ.


End file.
